


Odysseus and the Boar that Gave Him His Scar

by Goldenrayofsunshine



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (some of each), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Alexis | Quackity, BAMF Toby Smith | Tubbo, BAMF TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Canon typical child abuse, Dehydration, Disc War Finale, Duck Hybrid Alexis | Quackity, Enemies to Friends, Gaslighting, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Greek mythology references go brrrrr, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I read D'Aulaire's when I was six and I'm gay now, Lonely TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Not RPF, Pandora's Vault, Piglin Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Post-Canon, Prisoner TommyInnit, Psychological Torture, Redemption, Rescue Missions, Smart Tubbo, Solitary Confinement, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Toby Smith | Tubbo Has a Bad Time, Traumatized Tommyinnit (Video Blogging RPF), Uneasy Allies, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Alexis | Quackity, he can't fly though, make this a tag I beg, the DSMP characters, y'know the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29590791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldenrayofsunshine/pseuds/Goldenrayofsunshine
Summary: Tubbo kneels on the polished blackstone floor and prays it won’t hurt too much. He smiles, keeps smiling. He’s done everything he can to make this okay for Tommy. He closes his eyes, but he’s still aware of his best friend’s desperate sobs, and Dream’s eerie, catlike silence as he stalks his victim. He hopes Dream will kill him with an arrow or even a sword. An axe is such a brutal, barbaric weapon to use on a person.***Dream reaches up to his mask and spins it thirty degrees. “I’ve had Tommy locked away for everyone’s safety. He can’t have visitors just yet, as he’s still half-crazed.”Quackity’s tear ducts sting. “Leave my house.”***Three unlikely allies join together to break Tommy out of Pandora's Vault.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Alexis| Quackity & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Technoblade & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 286
Kudos: 1108
Collections: Cheshire's MCYT recs!, Completed stories I've read, Found family to make me feel something





	1. Telemachus in the Field

After Doomsday, Quackity settles in the desert, putting kilometers of distance between himself and the corpse of the nation he’d once tried to lead. He misses lakes, even manmade ponds, and his short wings get itchy from the blowing sands, but he needs the isolation. He’s gotten rid of his doorbell, and so when he hears hollow knocking on his sandstone wall, he startles to greet the unexpected visitor.

_ Dream. _ Masked bastard still found him all the way out here. His greatest enemy, his rival, the foiler of his plans. Who somehow shows up where he’s least wanted and most unhelpful. The duck man considers spitting in his face. No, he decides, he’s not looking for a fight, and it’s bad strategy to anger a god. “Come in.”

Dream stoops through the low doorway. “You have a lovely home.”

“Villagers built it,” says Quackity, “but they were all gone by the time I moved in. I guess the husks got ‘em.”

Dream runs a gloved finger along the ornamental carvings on a brick of chiseled sandstone. “It’s amazing, isn’t it, what those creatures can create, even with their inferior brains?”

“Why are you here?”

“I have news for you. Terrible news.” He gestures for Quackity to sit down, but the man defies him, staring back in disgust and anger.

“Suit yourself.” The masked man sinks down onto the bed, as casual as if he were at home. “Tubbo is dead.”

“No... He’s -- no.” Quackity blinks fiercely, refusing to let Dream see him in a moment of weakness.

“I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.”

“How did he die?” he asks as his voice breaks.

“Tommy brought him along to fight for the discs. The boys failed, and the items were destroyed. Tommy snapped, and in a fit of rage, he murdered his friend. Again, my condolences, Quackity.”

“Would Tommy do that?”

“He  _ did.  _ I couldn’t believe it either.”

Quackity’s eyes narrow. “Can I see Tommy? May I see the body?”

Dream reaches up to his mask and spins it thirty degrees. “I’ve had Tommy locked away for everyone’s safety. He can’t have visitors just yet, as he’s still half-crazed.”

Quackity’s tear ducts sting. “Leave my house.”

Dream shrugs, as though he doesn’t care one way or another. “As you wish.”

_ Tommy killed Tubbo,  _ Quackity thinks, shaking his head in disbelief. _ Tommy’s finally snapped, Dream broke him, and he -- would he do that? Would he really?  _ He waits until Dream is far out of earshot before uttering his retort.  _ “Bullshit.” _

***

Tubbo kneels on the polished blackstone floor and prays it won’t hurt too much. He smiles, keeps smiling. He’s done everything he can to make this okay for Tommy. He closes his eyes, but he’s still aware of his best friend’s desperate sobs, and Dream’s eerie, catlike silence as he stalks his victim. He hopes Dream will kill him with an arrow or even a sword. An axe is such a brutal, barbaric weapon to use on a person. Almost as bad as a firework. His fists are closed tightly, identically, but both still tremble. “Please, don’t cry, it’s alright, it’s going to be alright. Tommy, I--” And whatever he might say next is cut off by the wedge-shaped blade that buries itself in his spine.

Tommy wails in guttural horror.

“That’s enough. Come on.”

He doesn’t even glance up from the broken body that he’s cradling in his arms. “No, no, no…” he chokes through snot and tears. “Fix him! I know you can do it. Fucking fix him.”

“He’s gone, Tommy.” Dream’s voice is tight, unsympathetic as he grabs the boy by the back of his neck. “I said come on.”

“I, I, I’m not  _ leaving  _ him.”

“You don’t have a choice.” Dream yanks Tommy upright by his overgrown hair. “He’s already left you.” Tommy thrashes and fights but he’s too weak to change his fate as the devil drags him roughly along the cold floor. “When will you learn, Tommy? You can kick and scream and swear, but when you fight against me you will  _ always  _ lose. I told you, I’ll lock you in my vault and you will never, ever escape.”

Dream puts cuffs on his wrists and a gag in his mouth, then ties him up with a tight cord that digs into his unprotected arms and stomach. He’s hefted up like a sack of potatoes and carried into a dark corridor.

Neither he nor his captor see the small body left behind flare in a burst of green and yellow sparks.

***

Tubbo wakes up alone in the dim and blood-soaked room. All of the blood is his, at least, and that’s almost reassuring. He shakes with adrenaline and the even more artificial rush of regenerative magic. He’s in agony, his back a deep, unhealed wound that should be fatal. Hell, it was. And will be, again, if he doesn’t get help before the effects of the totem wear off. 

Tubbo tries to get up, but he’s woozy with bloodloss. The underground room swims in his vision and cuts away, and he finds himself on the ground again. He’s still bleeding, the hot fluid trickling down from his upper back and saturating the fabric of his trousers. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he crawls slowly towards the Hall of Attachments.

Yes! The Axe of Peace still sits in its frame where Dream had left it on display. Tubbo reaches for the weapon. It’s huge and heavy. It would take two hands for someone as small as him to wield properly, and he only has the one spare. But even if he can’t fight with it, it’s still useful. He limps across the hall to the softly humming portal, leaning on Technoblade’s battleaxe as a makeshift crutch.

The trek across the nether will be near-impossible in his current state: he’s vulnerable, unable to defend himself, and his wounds force him to travel slowly. He gags as the purple swirls take over his field of vision: Tubbo is especially susceptible to portal nausea, which is one of the reasons he hasn’t visited the nether in months. 

He stumbles out onto a bank of porous red stone. The netherrack is sharp through his socks. Dream has taken away his boots, all of his armor. He gazes across the lava lake in the direction he must cross and laughs with joy and disbelief. 

Cobblestone paths, wide enough to accommodate even a casual traveller, criss-cross every level of the hellscape. This is familiar handiwork. Tommy builds bridges, connects people and places, makes what is rugged accessible and inviting. Even from the dark belly of Pandora’s Vault, he’s saving Tubbo’s life one more time.

Tommy said there was a portal at his exile base, and surely that’s where all these paths must lead. Tubbo’s stomach clenches to think of his friend, abandoned and alone, reaching out silently for help and receiving no response. The blood Tubbo leaves on the stones behind him quickly boils and scorches away to nothing in the stifling nether heat. He’s relieved that he won’t leave an easy track to follow. A small herd of zombified piglins are the only monsters he comes across. They snuffle blankly at him, and he stares into their decaying faces and realizes he’s sort of a zombie, now, as well.

He emerges from the nether in Logsteadshire. The totem in his hand still hums, but more faintly, like the fading vibrations of a gong. Tubbo can’t rely on it for much longer, so he’ll need to find a simpler solution to stop the bleeding if he wants to stay alive. He wanders the beach of the distant island, desperately searching for useful supplies in the wreckage as the blade of the axe sinks into the sand. Bandages, healing potions, even just food or fresh water would help, but Dream of course took everything that Tommy ever made. The hateful tower splits the humble skyline.

At last he finds the tent. His friend had kept these rough quarters out of hope, that exile would be brief and he’d soon be back home and reunited with the people who loved him. Now the poles are snapped, the tethers cut, Tommy’s flimsy mattress slit open and soaked through with rain. Tubbo slices off a thick strip of tough sailcloth fabric and fastens it tightly around his midsection. The wound is too central to tourniquet, but even moderate pressure will slow the hemorrhage.  _ Please let that be enough. _ He can’t die here.

His eyes dull as he leaves the broken camp. His hands feel cold and numb in spite of mild weather. His lifeblood drips from him like sand leaking into the bottom bulb of an hourglass. This is a race against time. The pain takes him over, and he fantasizes about giving up, falling asleep.

***

_ Tubbo is dead. _ Quackity sits stiffly at his table, head in his hands.  _ Tommy _ - _ maybe not Tommy, has stolen his final life from him.  _

Quackity has known Tubbo a long time: first as Schlatt’s Right Hand Man, the timid lackey who ran errands for the Dictator and lived in a secret underground library. Second as the enemy spy whose explosive execution had cost Quackity his first life and all of his allegiances. 

They’d talked strategy together on the eve of the battle for Manberg, Tubbo trusting even a late defector utterly. He’d been such a clever kid, and Quackity wondered if the bastard who’d murdered him had any idea what he’d taken from the world. 

During his presidency, Quackity, as Vice, had tried desperately to make Tubbo act with authority. He saw so much potential in the boy that everyone, himself included, had trampled down. So much  _ wasted  _ potential, now that Tubbo was gone from the world at only seventeen. All he could have been, all he could have accomplished… the duck man buries his face in his wing and weeps in eulogy.

For the second time that day, he hears a knock on his door. Is Dream back? He won’t even try to hide his tears. Tubbo deserves to be mourned.

But the knocking isn’t the same as the confident taps he’s heard earlier. Instead he detects the dull sound of wood against wood, as though someone has struck his door with the handle of a weapon. Quackity brandishes his shield in a defensive stance as he opens the door to reveal a small, bloody figure slumped over an axe.

“Tubbo? What happened?”

The boy opens his left fist to reveal a broken enamel doll about the size of a chess piece. The spent totem rattles against the floor as Tubbo collapses wordlessly into his friend’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tubbooooo :0
> 
> please leave comment please I crave serotonin


	2. Wind for Our Voyage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> raccoon tubbo?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find any canonical information as to where Quackity lives post-Doomsday, so I returned to my roots and made shit up.

Even though it doesn’t change anything, Tommy struggles all the way into the prison. While his arms are securely pinned, he headbutts his captor in the ankles. The gag muffles his voice, but he screams around the cloth in his mouth, for help and out of anguish. And at last, when every muscle in his body is shaking with exhaustion, he goes limp and forces Dream to drag the whole weight of him down the obsidian tunnel.

“You’re making it worse for yourself,” Dream says blandly, as Tommy’s bony knees and elbows knock into the stone.

“I don’t care.”

“Stand up and walk. Stop acting like a fucking child.” He sounds almost pleased with himself, but Tommy knows better. When Dream’s truly happy, there’s a purr in his voice, not this note of anger. He slams Tommy’s head into the floor.

_ Small victories. _

“You killed him.” Blood in his mouth traces red lines between his teeth. “Tubbo’s  _ dead.  _ You fucking  _ killed  _ him.”

“I know, Tommy. I said I would, and I did.” Dream shifts his grip, pinching harder than necessary where Tommy’s shoulder meets his neck. “But, you  _ know _ that this is your fault as well. You’re the one who brought him along. He didn’t have to die.” He jostles Tommy again by way of punctuation. “Neither of you had to get hurt. All you had to do was stop fighting back against me.”

He grits his teeth, enunciating around the gag to be sure that Dream catches every word. “Someone will come for me. You won’t win.”

Dream stops dragging and tilts his head. “Who?”

He spits pink foam at the masked man’s feet.

“Tell me, Tommy, who do you think is going to rescue you? Who cares about you?” He counts off on his fingers. “Wilbur? He’s dead. Technoblade? You betrayed him. Tubbo? Oh, right. I just murdered him.”

Tommy feels sick.

“It’s over,” says Dream gently, “and it’ll start to feel better as soon as you accept that.”

But Tommy won’t fall for the same tricks twice. Dream is not his friend, is not looking out for his best interests, does not care about him past the sick fascination of a child who dissects live flies. Eventually, the green bastard will pay for what he’s done, and Tommy will be the one to deliver his punishment.

***

Night is cold in the desert. The dry extreme turns to outer space without insulating clouds to hold in heat. Tubbo trembles with cold and shock as Quackity sets him down carefully on the kitchen table.

He lays him facedown so he can get at the wound. It’s a cowardly thing, attacking someone while their back is turned. Now he’s certain Tommy wasn’t the one to do this.

Tubbo has bandaged his own injury with a sort of rough canvas. The makeshift dressing is dirty, as though it has been tossed in the mud, but if he cleans it quickly it still might be possible to stave off infection. A deep, wide, cut, tucked just beneath the bottom of the boy’s shoulderblade. He pries away the fabric and pours disinfectant into the seeping gap. Tubbo whimpers only slightly at the searing pain of the antiseptic. He’s faded far from the living world. 

Quackity threads floss onto a sewing needle and makes crude sutures. He’s no doctor, but he figures amateur care is better than no treatment at all. When he’s done all he can, he transfers Tubbo to the bed, tucking a soft cyan comforter up to his chin.

Quackity doesn’t brew potions outside of wartime, so his supply is running low. But he rummages in his valuables chest and finds a fruity pink bottle of healing. He dribbles the contents down Tubbo’s throat, and as soon as he does so, he swears he can see color return to his young friend’s cheeks. He sinks back in relief. He still has a million questions, but for now, all he can do is watch over Tubbo and wait for him to wake up. “You made it all the way here,” he says, “You’re just as strong as I thought.”

The wind blows up into a sandstorm that night and erases all footprints.

***

Tubbo stabilizes, but it takes a full day of rest and potions before he’s well enough to open his eyes. He vaguely recognizes the light sandstone walls that surround him. The agony in his back has dulled to an ache. “Big Q?”

“Tubbo!” the duck man’s voice shakes with something like worry or pride. “Hey.”

He reaches over his shoulder and his fingers brush freshly changed bandages. “Thank you.”

“You’re alive, Tubbo, oh my God, you’ve got to tell me what happened.”

He explains about losing the fight, becoming Tommy’s liability. Losing the discs for good. The open-concept elevator that had carried them down into the high-ceilinged blackstone tomb. The threat, the goodbyes, the ultimatum. “And then, well, he killed me.”

Quackity grins. “But you had a totem.”

“I guess you could say I’ve learned from our past failures.”

He laughs, and points to the battle axe that his guest dragged in. “How did you end up with the Axe of Peace? That’s a valuable weapon for someone who doesn’t even have shoes.”

“Dream’s got this creepy museum - Tommy and I called it the Hall of Attachments. He said he’s collecting things that people care about, so he’ll have power over all of you. Since he left my corpse in the next room over, as soon as I woke up, I helped myself.”

Quackity shivers. “I can’t even tell you how glad I am to see you, Tubbo. Dream told me you were dead.”

Tubbo frowns. “I can see why he’d think that.”

“I do have one question, though.”

“Go.”

“Why did you come here?” Quackity raises his small wings. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re welcome in my home, but there are a lot of closer houses, and in your condition, no one would have turned you away.”

“True,” says Tubbo, “But I wasn’t just looking for a place to recuperate.” He props himself up on his elbows. “Dream has Tommy. He took Tommy. I needed someone who can help me get him back.”

Times like this, Quackity remembers how much he hates the green meddling fuck who destroyed his home twice, foiled his army, and made a mockery of his government. “You came to the right place.”

***

In the barren desert, there’s no cover for a predator. Quackity spots the lime-green cloak before Dream gets within a half-mile of his home. 

Tubbo squeaks with fear. “What do I do?”

“Shit,” says Quackity, “We can’t let him see you. You have to hide.” He pulls Tubbo into his storage room and unlatches a double chest, emptying out the spare tools he keeps inside. “Can you fit? It’s tight, but you’re small.”

Tubbo climbs inside, tucking his knees to his chest. He winces in pain as his shoulder folds.

“Is this okay? Are you claustrophobic?”

In a small voice, he says, “I didn’t used to be.”

_ “Oh.” _

“It’s alright, though. I’ll be quiet. Go and talk to Dream, figure out what he wants.”

“Thank you, Tubbo. Thank you. I’ll get you out as soon as he’s gone.” Quackity takes a shaky breath and closes the lid, shutting his friend away into musty darkness.

He steadies himself, and waits at the door for his sworn enemy to arrive.

***

“Back so soon?” Quackity is unable to hide the malice in his tone. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I thought about what you said.” Dream brushes down the hood of his cloak. The sandy brown hair underneath makes him almost look human. “So I went back for Tubbo’s body. And get this! It’s gone!”

_ Oh no. Oh fuck.  _ Quackity thinks on his feet. “Yeah, I know.” He stares into the beady pinholes where he estimates Dream’s eyes to be. “I buried him.”

Dream hums in curiosity. “You did?”

“You heard me.” Quackity feels the downy undercoat of his wings stand on end. “I saw the stupid compass you gave them. I traveled off in the same direction, and I found the entrance to your evil lair. And then I gave Tubbo a proper fucking burial, because it’s the least he deserved after all of us failed him.” He doesn’t have to fake the redness that creeps into his cheeks. “An axe. He was killed with an axe, slaughtered like an animal.”

“Wasn’t that an awful thing of Tommy to do?”

“This is your fault, you know.” He slams his fist on the table, where only a thin cloth covers the fresh bloodstains. “Even if Tommy dealt the final blow, you’re the one who drove them apart. Who pitted them against one another.”

“Maybe so.” Dream replaces his hood. “What was the thing that you and Tubbo called Tommy in the battle for Manberg? Public Enemy Number One?”

Quackity wants to punch the man right in his smug porcelain face. “You’re the one who made us so paranoid.”  _ There’s a traitor,  _ Dream had said,  _ The last person you would expect. _ “How are you so calm? You watched a kid die! You stood back and  _ observed  _ as a teenager  _ slaughtered  _ his best friend! That’s some sick shit and you don’t even care!”

“I care,” says Dream, his voice silky, “I just know better than to act rashly out of anger. That’s a lesson I would think you’d be smart enough to learn.”

His hands are shaking. “If you don’t have anything else to say, then get out.”

“Goodbye, Quackity.” Dream leaves, boots shifting in the hot dunes of sand. “I’m sorry to make you so upset.” The duck waits until he’s sure the green man has left before he frees Tubbo from his box and discovers that the boy’s face is streaked with tears.

***

“He told you  _ Tommy  _ killed me?”

“Yeah,” says Quackity, helping him up, “Although I don’t know what idiot would believe him. Tommy  _ loves  _ you, everyone knows that.”

“Dream is such a fucking  _ liar.” _

“He is,” the duck man agrees, “Lucky for us, I’m not so bad at lying, myself.”

“We need to get Tommy back. The things Dream must be telling him…” He can see it now: Tommy, alone in the dark, crying himself to headache, beaten into a bloody pulp, running out of hope. What else could the master manipulator do to someone trapped in such a bad situation? “I need him back now. Please, we can’t leave him alone with that monster.”

“We’ll save him, Tubbo, I promise.” His wing tips prickle with electricity. “You know I want Dream dead. But we need a plan.” His eyes flicker to the weapon that now leans against his bedframe. “Tommy’s in the prison?”

“Pandora’s Vault, that’s what Dream said.” Tubbo sniffles. “And I know he’s a fucking liar but this was when he was gloating and revealing his whole evil scheme.”

“So! We have an indestructible prison to break into.” He clicks his tongue. “How the hell do we solve this one?”

Tubbo smiles slightly. “I know what Tommy would do.” Up against impossible odds, desperate for firepower, ready to overthrow the status quo in a fiery explosion -- Tubbo reaches out for the Axe of Peace. “I say we get the Blade.” 

He and Quackity have burned a few bridges in their time. But for Tommy, he’ll reach out despite the risk.

“Then it’s settled, Tubbo. As soon as you’re healed enough to travel, you and I go beg a favor from a pig.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good luck with that.
> 
> please leave comment please I crave serotonin


	3. Achilles' Tent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendship, banter, and puppies!  
> Tommy is having a hard time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how about that Tommy stream? On the one hand I feel so validated, on the other hand I'm terrified my ideas will become canon before I can get this fic out.

Tubbo tugs the sweater over his head. It’s too large for him, but much softer than the tailored suits he once wore. “I’ll be honest, Big Q, I sometimes forget you even own a shirt.” He fights to get his arms through the sleeves, wincing with every movement.

Quackity frowns. “You’re still in pain. Do you think it might be a better idea to wait a few more days before we go?”

“No,” says Tubbo, “We can’t leave Tommy. He doesn’t know I’m alive. He - he won’t be okay.”

“That’s fine. It’s your decision.” He passes Tubbo his smallest pair of trackpants. “Take these, too. I’m sorry your clothes got ruined.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” He laughs. So much for his favorite green button-down. He hopes that borrowing Quackity’s casual style will give him the duck’s same easy confidence. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

“Yeah, man.” He sighs. “Oh, God, Technoblade’s gonna murder us. Fucking porcine war criminal.”

Tubbo glances at the floor. “I do feel bad about what we did.” He hadn’t realized how painful it was to use a totem of undying.  _ And the axes… _

“It’s too late,” says Quackity, “To take any of it back now.”

***

Nobody expects refinement from a pig. Technoblade’s hulking, hell-raised form allows him to survive life’s constant battlefield, but is equally suited to reclining on elegant armchairs and reading philosophy. He fights intelligently, but not with the sort of cleverness reminiscent of cheap tricks. He lives honorably; his trust is sacred and not easily earned. 

And as for the lone enemy who’s wandered into his front yard -- Technoblade has every reason to cut him down where he stands.

Quackity raises his hands in surrender. He is unarmed, unarmored, and wholly unintimidating. A carefully crafted image by a corrupt politician. “Technoblade! Duck to pig, man to man, can we speak?”

He sighs wearily. “Are you here to kill me again?”

“No - I swear on it. I’m here with a message.”

If they’re having another festival, he won’t be bothered to attend.

“Has Dream told you what happened to Tubbo?”

He huffs. “Yeah, Tommy killed him? Fair enough, I’d say. Guess he finally got tired of his government selling him out.”

Tubbo steps from cover, face tight with anger. “Dream lies.”

“Huh. I suppose so.” He reflects that both men standing before him have been disfigured by his own weapons. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“Tommy has been imprisoned by a tyrant,” says Quackity, “For a crime he obviously did not commit. We need your help, Technoblade.”

“Heeh? Are you  _ kidding  _ me?”

“If you help us,” Tubbo offers, “you can have this.” He shows off the Axe of Peace, its well-polished head glistening in the sun.

“Yeah, and if I kill you right now, I also get my stuff back.”

Quackity steps in front of the younger boy. “We’re no threat to you.”

“I’m well aware, since my horse is out to pasture.”

“This is in your own best interest,” reasons the kid with the firework scars. “I know your disregard for laws. As long as the prison stands, you’re in danger of being incarcerated.”

“I’d have to lose a battle before that could happen.”

“And you might,” says the man through his missing tooth, “against an enemy who doesn’t fight fair.”

“I know we tried to kill you,” Tubbo admits, “And you have every right to hate us. But surely you want to take this battle -- what’s more authoritarian than a maximum security jail?”

“Are you an anarchist,” asks Quackity, “Or are you just angry?”

He glares at the underdressed idiots standing in the snow. They’re right. He despises them, but they’re right. “Temporary alliance,” he grunts at last, holding out a rough leathery paw to shake. Tubbo and Quackity take it in turn. Well aware that it could be used on his own neck someday, Tubbo takes a deep breath and returns the Axe of Peace to its original holder.

***

Exile was worse. In Logsteadshire, he’d been allowed to make tantalizing progress before his tormentor stole his work away, destroying his pitiful pieces of iron armor. Now, Tommy has nothing left to lose. He’s less scared, because he knows there’s no more Dream can take from him.

He has no possessions. L’Manberg is gone. Tubbo is… Tubbo.  _ Tubbo.  _ No, no,  _ no. _ His heart is  _ inflamed. _

He still believes he won’t be here forever. But when he dreams of his rescuers, they have no faces. He feels he’s run out of people who care about him.

Last time, Dream had broken him.  _ He has to be stronger.  _ He will remember that Dream is not his best friend, and that Tubbo was. _ Is.  _ He still loves him, even if Tubbo is gone. And Tubbo  _ is _ gone. Tommy watched all three of his deaths. He sees them again whenever he shuts his eyes. 

The vault is made of obsidian, and the ceiling weeps. The stone conducts lava-heat into his small room, making it hot and murky as a steam sauna. Tommy smells like sweat and blood,  _ Tubbo’s  _ blood, and then his nose is all stuffed up from crying.

A sleek chest filled with empty notebooks, and a lectern on which to read them. Fifty-four books. He counts them repeatedly, as if the number will change. It would take him years to fill them all. No bed to sleep in. A cauldron set into the floor, half-full of dull, oily water. A clock in a frame. Nothing he can use to escape. Escape, really? He understands that he can’t  _ save  _ himself from this situation.

He couldn’t even save Tubbo.

And he’d tried. He’d really,  _ really  _ tried. He’d fought for his life,  _ begged  _ for his life. He would have taken the axe himself if Tubbo could be spared. He didn’t really want to die, but for a friend, that is just what you do. 

***

The rescue party waits in an awkward standoff. At last, Tubbo breaks the silence. “I really did like your bee farm.”

The piglin nods curtly. “I needed honey for a project.”

The farm is automated, industrial, a far cry from L’Manberg’s peaceful apiary. “What project?”  _ Why would anyone ever need this much honey? _

“Piston door,” Techno mutters. “Fine. Come see.”

Tubbo follows enthusiastically under the shadow of the mountain. He can always appreciate a bit of sleek redstone, though he wishes they could get back on track with saving Tommy. Technoblade points out a subtle button that camouflages against the natural stone. “Press.”

“Tubbo,” says Quackity, “Don’t.”

“Look, I don’t trust him either, but we are putting our lives in his hands, for now. For Tommy.” He touches the button and the rock grinds apart.

***

_ Skulls.  _ Humanoid skulls mounted on three walls of the warrior’s lair. Wither skulls: bones charred the matte black of spent embers. Hollow eye sockets that still hold a mimicry of life, a hint of blue fire. 

Potions, weapons, armor - these were all reasonable supplies for a paranoid survivalist striking out alone in the wilderness, but this -- “Holy shit, you bacon-flavored bastard,” says Quackity, “This isn’t  _ okay.” _

Tubbo inspects the mechanism of the entrance, his expression thoughtful. He strokes the nearest skull, though it snaps at him with rotten teeth.  _ One hundred and sixty two skulls. Fifty-four monsters to summon. _ “Are you certain we have enough?”

“My God, you’re demanding. If you want more, harvest the skeletons yourself.”

“Give me your sword and I will,” says Quackity.

“Sure. Nice try.” The piglin rolls his beady eyes. “Where have you two been living?”

“Far from here,” says Tubbo.

“In a swamp.”

“Long trip home?”

“Takes hours,” answers Quackity, “On foot.”

“You’re not staying in my house.”

“Not even the basement?” Tubbo wheedles.

“Hell no. I keep my sacred cattle down there.” Techno shrugs. “I only have one surviving cow, but he’s very important to me.”

“Not for food?”

“You hurt Bob and I bring back the rocket launcher.” That gets a reaction out of the boy, an exaggerated flinch. He concedes slightly. “You can sleep in the doghouse.”

“What? But Tubbo’s injured!”

“Yeah? That sounds like his problem, then.”

“Quackity,” he says, tugging on the duck’s wing, “Just leave it. I’ll be fine.”

“Fuck this. You were on death’s door two days ago, and now he says you can’t even have a bed to rest in?”

Tubbo pulls him into the squat oak building that stands less than ten feet from the main structure of the cabin. The roof is unfinished, a light snow frosting the inside and drifting into the corners. Dozens of gray and white dogs huddle together for warmth. “Look! Puppies! See, it’s not so bad here.” True, these hounds are slavering wolves, fed on flesh and trained to kill, but they’re kind of cute when they’re sleeping. 

Quackity tries to find the softest spot on the pile for Tubbo to lie down, and covers him with his jacket. The thin fabric is designed for fashion over practicality, but he can see their breaths condensing in the arctic air and he knows his young friend is still weak from all his ordeals. Everything helps. “Are you comfortable?”

Tubbo holds a particularly small pup close to his chest. “This one likes hugs. Will you help me name him?”

“Don’t get attached. This is temporary. And Technoblade definitely won’t let you keep that little guy.”

Tubbo looks crestfallen. “Anyway, I can’t wait to show him to Tommy. If we -  _ when  _ we get him back. Yeah. Tommy will like that.”

***

Tubbo told him to stay himself. He’ll try.  _ For Tubbo, he’ll try.  _ Even if he spends the rest of his life in this prison, he’ll still be Tommy. He writes down the jokes he has nobody to tell. He draws the sun, and grass, and the faces of his friends, and all the other beautiful things he will never see again. Dream visits. Dream is the only one who visits. He’s desperate for Tommy’s attention, showing up two or three times a day. 

“You’ve ruined everything,” Tommy tells him roughly, at what the clock claims is the middle of the night, “And I miss Tubbo. So much. I always will. But I am  _ not  _ broken.” He holds his head high, although his lip is trembling. “I haven’t broken. I am never gonna break. I’m  _ myself, _ and you can’t take that away from me, Dream.”

“Okay,” says the masked man, and in one fluid motion, he pulls the golden clock off of Tommy’s wall and flings it into the molten lava curtain. He leaves, and Tommy curls up on the glassy, brittle floor. Eventually, he sleeps. 

He’s not sure what time it is when he wakes up, but after he’s counted several thousand seconds under his breath, he realizes that his captor has stopped feeding him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> free big man
> 
> i dearly appreciate all comments


	4. Epimetheus Reflects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor kids.

The piglin has his reading glasses on. He’s bent over maps and schematics, sketching meticulously in black squid ink. He snuffles softly to himself as he writes, and hunches to block his work whenever Tubbo tries to peer over his shoulder.

“I’m really trying to be patient, Technoblade, but this is important. How much longer before we can get to Tommy?”

“As much as I want you squatters out of my kennel, I’m not charging into that prison until I’ve outlined all the steps we’re going to take.”

And yeah, Tubbo knows how crucial it is to have a plan, facing Dream.

_ Because Dream doesn’t lose.  _ The man takes only fights he’s certain he can win.  _ And he doesn’t retreat. _ He won’t leave an opponent alone until he’s crushed them utterly. Tubbo had known, therefore, from the first time he laid eyes on the silvery compass, that there would be no resolution to the Disc Saga that didn’t end in his death. But he wasn’t quite ready to go.

His Manberg days had taught Tubbo about the game of chess. President Schlatt had kept a collector’s set, and he’d explained to his cabinet the rules. 

_ “I’m the King. I may not be the  _ strongest,  _ or the  _ fastest--”  _ he pokes Tubbo, at that, with the tip of his cane, “But I’m the most important. Because if I die, my country goes down with me. _

_ “Quackity’s my Queen. He’s the one to do the heavy lifting, see, he backs me up, he keeps me in power. His fate seems to make or break the game, but remember, we can always live without him.” _

_ He picks up a small white piece from the front lines and spins it by the head. “This one’s a pawn, Tubbo, like you. You may be weak and small, but remember, most of chess comes down to the way we use these.” _

_ There’s one piece left at the bottom of the box, a strange figurine with a long nose and the wings of an angel, and Schlatt doesn’t touch it as he sets up the board. Tubbo asks, “An extra?” _

_ “Oh,” says Schlatt, hiding the doll into his sleeve like a fifth ace. “Don’t worry about that one. That’s just my bodyguard.” _

Tubbo’s not sure why Schlatt never used his totem, but he suspects. The dictator was always overconfident, hubristic, not expecting his actions to have consequences. He’d believed the firework show he’d ordered wouldn’t hurt him too, that treating a man like a dog wouldn’t get him bitten, that his own body would never betray him, and the man had been wrong all three times. So when Tubbo, president of a crater for the second time in his short life, digs through the box he’d salvaged from the wreckage of the old whitehouse, the thirty-third chess piece is still waiting for him to take.

He’s not Schlatt. He’s not corrupt, or drunken, or angry, but most importantly, Tubbo has foresight. Why, now, in his desperation, is he forgetting his strategies and trying to pry open Pandora’s Box? Fuck, he misses Tommy so badly. Tommy is impulsive and fiery and his heart gives him strength. He’s the perfect contrast, and without his best friend, Tubbo is forgetting how to be  _ Tubbo. _

Tommy, who’s always in motion, is now trapped like a bat in a double-paned window, a cell too small to bounce off of the walls. Tommy, whose emotions loom like titans, is left alone with his oversized versions of  _ pain  _ and  _ rage  _ and  _ grief.  _ If only he wasn’t so stubborn and so angry and so colorful, both boys could be safe right now, but Tubbo will never wish his constant companion had been anything but  _ utterly  _ Tommy.

_ *** _

Fucking green bitch piece of shit. The face-hiding  _ coward. _ The next time he visits, Tommy’s gonna tear into him with his teeth and nails like a rabid animal.

It’s not even that he’s hungry, although he is, to the point of being racked with cramps. Tommy’s gone without before, he’s  _ starved  _ before. He’s fought in wars on meager rations, he’s spent days in the dim cave with Wilbur, who didn’t care enough to eat, before Technoblade joined their side and established a food source. And in exile, he’s braved weeks of watery mushroom soup and getting steadily thinner before he finally cracked.

It’s this very experience with food insecurity that’s making his current situation feel so much worse. Now, as soon as he can’t satisfy the ache, he’s thrown into a panic, as his scarred body and mind call up memories of malnourishment.

The next time Dream visits, he keeps his distance, leaving up the heavy metal bars between jailor and victim.  _ Wise choice, as Tommy wants to take a bite out of his leg. _ “Fuck you! You can’t do this to me!”

He tilts his head blandly. “Do what, Tommy?”

“You, you know -- starve me!”

“You think I should give you food, Tommy? You think I should be bringing you presents? Do you deserve that? Are you asking for that?” 

“No, just --” Tommy hates how small he sounds, “just something to eat.”

“That’s certainly something that friends do for each other,” says Dream, placid as his mask, “But you haven’t been a very good friend to me.”

Tommy winces. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

“Is that all a friend is to you, Tommy? Someone who gives you things? Someone you can use, and take advantage of?”

“No…”

“No wonder you don’t have many friends left.”

“Shut  _ up!  _ Shut up about  _ friendship.  _ You, you don’t have  _ anyone. _ And you killed Tubbo! You  _ killed  _ Tubbo!”

“You’re right,” says Dream. He rests his gloved fingers tantalizingly close to the cage, and Tommy wonders if he’d be fast enough to reach out and break them. “We only have each other now, don’t we?”

“You don’t  _ have  _ me. I fucking  _ hate  _ you. We’re not friends and we never will be!” He yells so hard his voice shears apart and he’s crying.

“Water’s next, Tommy.”

He goes still. “You wouldn’t.”

“I can do anything I want.”

“You won’t, though, ‘cause I’ll die without water, and you still want me, for some reason, you  _ need  _ me…”

“I don’t know, Tommy,” says Dream with an exaggerated sigh, “If you’re not going to be my friend, I might have to move on. Everyone gets tired of you eventually, don’t they?”

“No,” he shakes his head violently, “Tubbo didn’t. Tubbo didn’t leave, he cared about me right up until the very end --”

“I was there,” Dream nods, “You told him not to go. But he still went. He walked  _ towards  _ me. Remember how easy he made it? How ready he was to die? He’d had enough! He let me _ kill _ him, rather than let  _ you _ take him home, back to your  _ dumb  _ house.”

“That’s not  _ true,”  _ but the words don’t leave his mouth right, his vision is blurry. “That isn’t what he wanted. You don’t know him!  _ I  _ know him, and he, and I  _ mattered  _ to him, and he liked me, so, so much, and…”

“Then why’s he gone, Tommy?”

“Because you  _ murdered  _ him, you Green Stupid Bastard, I can’t  _ believe… _ ”

“But it’s your fault too, isn’t it?” Dream shrugs. “Look, think about  _ this. _ If he really did care about you, then why isn’t he here? He could have come back as a ghost, and don’t you think he would have taken the time to tell his  _ friend _ that he’s resting easy now, that things are so  _ nice  _ in the afterlife, and that it’s all been for the best?” He places his hands behind his head. “No! He’s probably furious at you, Tommy. If he even remembers you.”

“Leave,” says Tommy. His protests are muffled. He’s lying on the floor, and his arms don’t work. He can’t get up, and he’s not sure if he wants to. Dream lies. He knows this. Dream lies.

***

Technoblade forges armor. The two refugees had shown up at his house to beg with  _ iron  _ to their name. That was embarrassing, pathetic. How long has it been since he’s seen someone wandering the wilderness  _ that  _ poor,  _ that  _ helpless, at the mercy of skeletons and petty bandits and wild animals? 

_ Tommy.  _ It was Tommy, who’d hidden in his root cellar, Tommy with bruises under his eyes and scars on his cheeks and hairline, his armor shiny and impressive but durable as wet paper. Techno had fed Tommy, clothed and supplied him. Given him custom tools, not hand-me-downs, because a Piglin’s belongings didn’t fit a scrawny human kid.  _ So bizarrely scrawny.  _ Techno had put it down to a teenage growth spurt.

Tommy, who’d abandoned Technoblade’s superior protection and wise ideology for a helpless, half-dead child and a nation with a constantly changing flag. Techno will never understand that decision and the betrayal still stings, but he doesn’t particularly want Tommy dead. Imprisoned, though? He could care less. Tommy will break out, or he won’t; he’ll win, or he won’t. That’s his own problem.

_ So why’s he making personalized armor, again? _ After what happened last time? And the time before that? This is his own life-energy that he breathes into the protective plate as he enchants with shimmering books.  _ To win. To succeed.  _ Tubbo and Quackity are his enemies, his allies, his soldiers to command. He wants the Prison blown to rubble, and he has every reason to believe these two will help him do it. He’s still wary that he’ll be backstabbed, but the feeling is illogical. He doesn’t trust in Governments, but he trusts the duck and the boy, as  _ people, _ share his common goal.

So he presents the completed sets, and tries to ignore the nausea in his stomach that tells him history will repeat itself. He watches Tubbo smile like it’s the vault under the lake as he tries on the smaller suit and his scarred face disappears behind the visor of the helmet. He bites down on the anxiety that screams at him for supplying gear to the man he was once forced to kill with a pickaxe. “Quackity, there’s a pair of netherite boots for you. Get ‘em on.”

“No,” the Duck refuses, “I’m keeping my diamonds. These are my good luck shoes.”

  
_ What does he care? _ “Fine, then” he grunts, “You’ll need some damn luck.” He wonders if this will be the third time Quackity makes a stupid choice and gets himself killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please, please free big man
> 
> 1 comment = 1 put-green-boy-through-a-woodchipper <33


	5. Siren Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this got kinda dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updating twice in a day b/c the hyperfixation has taken over and I have no self-control

There’s a little bit of water left in the cauldron, but Tommy has been using it to wash himself. So it’s scuzzy, discolored, and grease and hair float on the surface. He holds out as long as he can, but it’s  _ so  _ hot in the cell and his head aches from dehydration and the crying has just made it worse. Finally he’s so desperate that he cups his hands to the lukewarm basin and drinks. The water tastes like salt and dirt and blood, blood… 

“That’s disgusting.”

He startles, spilling some of the precious water at the loud entrance of Dream, who’s crept up on him.

“Wouldn’t you rather have some clean water?”

He glares into that relentlessly smiling mask.

“I have some for you right here.” Dream holds up a small glass bottle and swings it in front of Tommy’s face. “It’s fresh and cold.” He runs a hand over the round bulb and licks the condensation off of his own finger. “I’m sure you’d like me to give it to you.”

His throat burns. “Fuck you.”

Dream raises his fists and lunges forward. Tommy, realizing he’s gone too far, scatters to the corner and braces for a hit that never comes. By the time he realizes what’s happening, it’s too late. Dream pulls the basin out of the floor and pours out the contents. Tommy falls to the ground and tries to lap up as much of the water as he can get, but the obsidian is sharp on his tongue and the liquid hisses up into steam almost immediately and Dream just stands there and  _ laughs. _

“Would you like to rethink that decision, Tommy?”

“you…you…” he trembles. He just sucked literal filth off of a prison floor. What’s the point of pretending that he still has pride? How is he meant to stand up for himself?

“You need water to live. You’ll feel a lot better.”

The bottle’s so small. He would finish it in seconds, but the regret would last much longer.

“Just ask, alright? I’ll give it to you. We’re friends.”

_ Does it matter? _ He feels dirty. He hates what he’s become. “You’re going to force me to take it, aren’t you? You won’t let me die. You’re not done with me.”

Dream cocks his head. “I don’t know, Tommy. You’re just not as much fun anymore. Not when you’re so sad. I mean, nobody likes a crybaby.”

_ So that’s it. _ Dream’s really going to let him choose. Or maybe not, maybe he’s just lying again, playing more games. Tommy can’t tell. He’s confused, and so tired. “Give it to me.”

Dream dangles the bottle out of his reach. “Say please.”

“Please, I don’t want to die. Just let me drink.”

“Okay.” Dream keeps hold of the bottle, but he uncorks it and pours the contents into Tommy’s dry mouth. Once the container is half-empty, he jerks it away, pulling the glass through Tommy’s clenched teeth. 

“I wasn’t done.”

“That’s all you get for now, Tommy. We can talk more later.”

_ He’s still so thirsty.  _ His cheeks are cloaked in velvet and  _ that didn’t help at all. _ “Don’t leave.”

“You’re glad I’m here, then? You want me to stay?”

“I want the rest of the water.”

“Well, you haven’t given me a reason to do something that kind for you. I know you don’t like this, but I have to go now. I’ll see you soon, Tommy.”

Tommy puts his fist in his mouth and screams.  _ It wasn’t worth it. He gave up. He was weak. He gave Dream what he wanted and it wasn’t even worth it. _ When he takes his hand out, it’s smeared with the white peach fuzz that’s accumulated on his tongue. He hopes he gets more water next time.

***

Tubbo is painting gold leaf onto a fresh apple when the ghost appears to him. “Wilbur? Nobody’s seen you since Doomsday.”

“I’m Ghostbur,” claims the spirit in his echoey voice, “That’s different. And I’ve been around.”

“Okay, well it’s good to see you, but this is kind of a bad time, so if there’s something you need to tell us --”

“Tommy seems sad.”

“That’s actually the problem that we’re working on right now,” says Quackity. His golden apple is messier, the metal foil peeling up where he’s haphazardly applied it. In truth, he doesn’t know Tommy all that well. He’s here to put a stop to Dream. And he’s here because Tubbo asked him to be here.

“He’s sadder than I’ve ever seen him. Even worse than he was when Alivebur died.”

Tubbo tries to swallow the lump in his throat.

“I’m glad you’re helping him, because I think if he doesn’t feel better really, really soon, then something terrible might happen.”

Tubbo feels his heart crumple. “No. No… tell him…”  _ Tell him I’m alive. Tell him we’re coming to save him. _ But they can’t risk it. What if Dream intercepts the information? Even with Technoblade and his withers, the most important weapon they’ve got is the element of surprise. If Dream realizes they’re coming, they might never save Tommy. “...Don’t tell him anything, please. You can’t. Don’t talk to him.”

“Okay, if that’s what will help.” Ghostbur sounds puzzled. “I could give him some blue.”

“Does Tommy like blue?”

“I gave it to him all the time in exile.”

“No, don’t do that, then…we don’t want to remind him. But, um, maybe you could do something else to make him a little happier? Could you play him his favorite song?”

The ghost nods cheerfully. “I can do that.”

“Thank you, Wil.” Tubbo waits until the spirit has wandered away before he collapses into his hands. “Big Q, Tommy’s not okay. I told you he wouldn’t be okay.”

Quackity wraps a wing around his friend’s shoulder. “We’re doing all we can, Tubbo. We’re going to save him, and we’re going to make Dream pay.”

“I don’t even care what happens to Dream. I just want Tommy back. This shouldn’t be  _ happening _ to him.”

“Or to you,” Quackity adds gently, “But it is, and you’re stepping up to do what has to be done. And so is Tommy. He’ll make it, because he  _ has _ to. He is stubborn and he’s strong.”

Tubbo wants to believe in this, desperately. He remembers that version of Tommy, idealistic and unbreakable. But he also remembers how different his friend has been since Logsteadshire, quiet and pale inside.  _ He wants the old Tommy back. _

“Comrades!” Technoblade practically kicks down his own door. He scoffs at the shabby pile of golden apples they’ve crafted. “Just one more trip to the nether, and we’re ready for battle.”

Quackity frowns. “The nether? What else do we need?”

The piglin’s voice lowers. “If you can believe it, we’re out of soul sand.”

***

Sure enough, Dream’s back  _ (what feels like) _ only a few hours later. Tommy meets him at the doorway and demands “more water.”   
  


“You’re still on about that, are you?”

His whole throat is burning. He can’t take this. “You said. More water when you come back. You’re back.”

“And are you happy to see me, Tommy?”

His breath crackles in his chest. “Water.”

“Maybe later.” The bottle sloshes in the man’s cloak pocket. “First, I’d like us to talk.”

“I can’t, I’m too thirsty.”

“You’ve been talking just fine until now. Keep doing that. I know how much you love to run your mouth, after all.”

_ What’s happening here?  _ Does Dream want him to beg? Does he want him to die?

“This won’t be so hard, alright? We’re only going to have a civilized conversation, and if you treat me well, I’ll do something kind for you. How are you?”

Tommy coughs. “Bad.”

“I’m doing alright, thank you for asking. I enjoy visiting my friend. So, what have you been thinking about?”

_ Water.  _ “Tubbo.”

“What about Tubbo?”

_ You killed him.  _ “I miss him.”

“Do you?”

_ So badly.  _ “I want water.”

“You’re not very much fun to talk to today, Tommy.”

“I’ll be dead soon, I think.”  _ God, his head is just  _ pounding. “See Tubbo.”

“Are you sure that’s how it works?”

“Not sure of anything.”

“That’s good, Tommy.” Dream pats him on the head like he’s a dog. “You’re doing a good job. I think you deserve a treat.”

_ Water?  _ “What?”

Dream reaches into his pocket and takes out a sleeve of salted crackers. “You haven’t had any food in a few days. Would you like this?”

_ No, not salt, not without water, he can’t.  _ “Not hungry.”

“I know what you’d like. Your favorite thing in the world, I think.”

_ No. That’s gone. _

Dream is cradling an old-fashioned jukebox. “How about I let you listen to your discs?”

Those discs ruined his life.  _ So why does he still like them so much? _ Oh, and he’d take anything that would distract him from just how fucking thirsty he is. “Yes. Please.”

Dream’s mask seems to grin wider. “Which one first?”

Mellohi is a sad song.  “Cat.”

“Okay, Tommy.” Dream sets the jukebox just outside his cell, out of his reach. He slides in the green disc. He leaves.  _ Cat plays. _

And plays. And plays.

_ On repeat. _

It’s so loud. So upbeat. He can’t tune it out. He can’t sleep anymore. The notes  _ plink  _ into his skull like pennies in a glass jar. Worthless.  _ The disc is worthless. _ That stupid fucking piece of plastic cost him Tubbo’s last life, and now the very sound of it is driving him to madness. He’ll never be able to listen to Cat again.

No, he’s never going to _stop_ listening. To fucking Cat. Because the jukebox will loop and loop and loop that same jingle every remaining second he’s alive. It’s worse than the thirst, the hunger, the heat, the isolation. It’s so personal. _It’s so --_

_ The room has four walls. Three are obsidian and the fourth wall is lava. The ceiling weeps. Dream is using him. Dream is playing a game. Tommy isn’t the other player. _

The jukebox sings.

_ He has his discs. He doesn’t have anything. It’s the end of the world. It’s the end of the story. _

He’s so thirsty.

_ Dream wouldn’t stop him this time. Dream is bored of him. It’s his choice. He isn’t fun anymore. He  _ chose _ Cat. He chose the discs. This is his fault. Nobody likes him as much anymore, now that he’s sad. He lost his Tubbo, so he will be sad forever. _

He stumbles toward the lava on shaky legs.

_ Could he drink it? It _ is _ a liquid. He hurts so much. He’ll be in here forever. Why not now? It’s only a matter of time. _

His nose is hot, like he’s standing too close to a campfire. He can hear music coming from the other side.

_ He’s finally snapped. Dream broke him. He’s broken. It’s already over. It’s over as soon as he decides-- _

He hears the pop of a disc being removed and the silence startles him so much that he falls backwards onto his ass. Only a second of peace before the sound resumes.

_ But it’s not the same. It’s a different song. It’s a different disc.  _

He likes this disc.

It plays three times, and each repetition Tommy shifts backward, away from the sea of lava. He sniffles into his sleeve, and smiles grimly at the return of silence. That’s a sign. That’s a fucking prophecy.

_ Wait. _

_ Wait. _

_ Wait. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big man lives on.
> 
> Do you guys have a favorite music disc? Mine is Wait. tell me urs in the comments. or just yell at me, that's good too.
> 
> Next Chapter: explosions


	6. The Trojan Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not hubris if you fight God and win.

Potions are more potent brewed fresh. That’s what Technoblade says, as he teaches his allies how to stew the scutes until they’re soft and boil off the extract. Quackity hates the idea of fighting for his life while the effects of the viscous drug have made his limbs slow.

“It’s worth it,” the Piglin growls, “Never underestimate the importance of a strong defense.”

But he likes to be agile, dodge hits instead of withstand them. It’s less painful. Still, who is he to question Techno, the man who has clothed him in armor as expensive as it is beautiful, who sits atop a throne of skulls? This piglin is born for war, is somebody Quackity regrets ever crossing. He is disturbingly powerful, and as the three sneak toward the prison under cover of darkness, arms laden with supplies, he gives thanks that the Blood God is on his side this time.

They climb the prison walls - the blackstone brick provides easy footholds, even though the curse of the elder guardians has made their muscles sore and weak. Technoblade studies the roof, his cape flapping out behind him in the cool night air. “Start here. Dream’s keeping Tommy in the main cell, I think. As though he’s a threat and not a  _ child.”  _ His tone is derogatory.

Quackity pours soul sand and begins shaping the mound into a crude golem. “Hold on,” says Tubbo, “What if the withers hurt Tommy?”

“He’ll probably live.” Technoblade palms a skull in his massive paw. “I need this prison  _ gone.  _ We can’t try a light hand.”

“Tommy needs to be  _ safe.  _ That’s why we’re doing this. That’s the only thing that matters!”

The piglin grunts. “Only thing that matters to  _ you.  _ Now, do you want my help or not?”

This stupid alliance is the only chance he has at getting his friend back. He has to take the risk. “If he gets killed I will never forgive you.”

“I don’t care if you forgive me or not, Tubbo.” The headless sand-castles surround them like an army without a command until Technoblade begins to place the skulls and brings his monsters to life.

***

Tommy waits. No more food, no more water. He isn’t sure if Dream will leave him to rot here, or give him another chance. Tommy tried to give the man what he wanted so he wouldn’t be hurt as badly. But it seems like all he wants is for Tommy to suffer. It doesn’t matter if he’s defiant, if he’s brainwashed, if he simply gives up and plunges into the lava. It’s all over, it’s all gone. His head hurts so, so badly. He’s too weak and dizzy to stand. He’s hot and now he doesn’t even have the basin to cool himself off. Instead of discs, he listens to the fire pop and hiss and crackle.

He’s tried so hard to be strong. He tried to be himself, to be someone Wilbur and Tubbo would have been proud of. He’s lost so many friends and he doesn’t understand why he’s still here. Does there have to be a reason?

Fuck, he needs water so badly. His tongue has swollen up to twice its normal size, but the rest of his face feels sunken. His eyeballs bulge and his lower back aches, as though there are glass shards in his kidneys. This is a really, really bad way to die. He wonders how long it will take. He waits.  _ It wasn’t this bad for Tubbo, was it? An axe, it was quick. That’s a nice thought. _

Although it doesn’t matter, he’s glad he hasn’t broken. He remembers who his friends were. He waits, but he has no clue what he’s waiting for.

Then he hears the demonic rattle of fifty withers sucking in air at once, and he has a pretty good fucking idea.

***

Tommy’s had a checkered past with explosions. His home country blowing up three times, from below, from above, and not to mention Logsteadshire… 

_ But it’s different this time.  _ Someone’s come, to help him or kill him, he’ll take either. Someone, anyone, who isn’t Dream.

The crashes grow louder. Chips of shattered obsidian rain down on him from the ceiling. The air he breathes turns murky with rancid black smoke. A skull-shaped projectile punches through the roof in a shock wave of energy and cold blue flame and crumbles to dust just inches from Tommy’s lap. Torchlight shines down on him, and somebody cheers.

“Still alive in there, Theseus?”

“Big Q?” he croaks, “Technoblade?”

“Big man, we came.”

_ “Tubbo?”  _ And now this can’t be real. He floats, half-lucid, on the surface of an oil slick. His brain is desiccated.

A small figure clad in glowing purple armor clambers through his new skylight and kneels beside him. He tears off his helmet to reveal sweaty brown hair and firework scars. “Tommy, it’s me. I’ve got you.” He unstraps his chestplate, boots, and leggings and draws his captured friend into a crushingly tight hug.

He gasps into Tubbo’s shoulder. He would be crying, but the tears won’t come. “Please, can I have something to drink?”

“Oh my God, Tommy, yes.” He opens a bottle and helps steady Tommy’s hands. It’s a health potion, the water spiked with carbonation and faint sweetness. 

The boy gulps it down and immediately retches pink slime onto the floor. “...I...I…”

“It’s okay, I have another one.” Tubbo takes a second flask from his pocket. “More slowly this time, can you try? Small sips.” 

He keeps it down, and as the magic does its job, he seems the tiniest bit better. His cheeks are hollow, his lips so shrunken that they’re almost gone. His body is covered with bruises, and he’s still wearing the shirt that is crusted stiff with Tubbo’s blood. 

“Put my armor on, please.” He seems so weak and vulnerable, like the slightest injury would push him over life’s edge, and Tubbo would do anything to protect him now. He fastens Tommy into the heavy plate metal. It’s short on him, and loose at the same time. “What did he  _ do  _ to you, man?”

“I, I, Tubbo I’m sorry,” he rambles, “I tried so hard, I tried and I couldn’t, I just  _ couldn’t,  _ I tried to be strong, you -- you…”

“Tommy, it’s alright now.” Tubbo looks up at him with shining eyes. “You made it. I’m right here with you. I’m going to get you out of this place and we’ll go somewhere far away.”

“I’m going to tear this prison down,” adds Technboblade, “brick by brick, until all that’s left is a valley full of sand and dust.”

“And I’m going to fucking  _ kill  _ Dream --” Quackity swings his sword around his head “-- where is that green piece of shit?”

***

From the first stone that had cracked on prison grounds, he’d received an alert to his communicator. And though he’d hurried to investigate, Dream wasn’t yet all that concerned. It was wither-proof, he’d tested it himself during construction. The undead beast had barely made a dent in the structure’s wall before losing interest and wandering off to decimate a flock of sheep.

That was one wither. The intruders had brought  _ thousands.  _

Three tiny figures are perched atop Pandora’s Vault, monsters swirling around them like leaves in a gutter, like migrating starlings. The Blood God, the Butcher, and --  _ is that fucking  _ Tubbo?  _ Not possible! _

He’ll - Dream will kill them. These three will be cut down for defying him. He’ll clean the withers from the sky, and then he will  _ slaughter  _ Tommy’s would-be rescuers. And he’ll make Tommy watch as he does it.  _ That would finally break him. _

Dream is never without supplies. He is always prepared. It takes him only a second to break splash potions over his head before he joins the battle. 

He is a whirlwind of violence, a supernatural force. His axe slices cleanly through his enemies, returning the demons to inert bones. The air in his lungs burns like gasoline and skulls whistle past his ears but nothing dares touch him.

Until the piglin sees him and looses an arrow. It flies wide in the manufactured maelstrom, embedding in his ankle. Far from a fatal strike. But there’s something  _ on _ the arrowhead, a poisoned tip, and Dream staggers as his leg swells around the snakebite.

Quackity’s on him next. The man’s a scrappy, awkward fighter. His emotions detract from his form, and Dream easily blocks his hits. But he’s shaken by Quackity’s war cries and joyful, grating shouts, and the short useless wings that flicker across his face like a chicken in a dust bath.

He lays several stinging cuts on the flailing legs and wings and arms, but visibility is poor and his opponent unpredictable, so he can’t deliver a deadly wound. Instead, he’s just too distracted to defend himself from Technoblade, who is hacking away methodically at his chestplate. Tommy joins in, unsteady on his feet as a newborn lamb. He sobs inconsolably and mutters something about green bitches.

Dream is livid. He should be winning. He could hold his own against Technoblade: and Tommy, Tubbo, Quackity? In combat, the three of them are a joke. But even for a warrior as skillful as himself it’s impossible to fight all four at once: and the flying pests? Withers like a plague of locusts!

His focus shifts. If he must lose this fight, he’ll go down like a bitter pill, inflicting as much pain as possible. He aims his hits at Tommy’s darkest bruises, shreds Techno’s cape to ribbons, and plucks out Quackity’s feathers with his bare hands. He makes a slit in a floppy piglin ear, targets the pick-scarred man on his blind left side, and lunges forward to close his grip around Tommy’s parched throat.

_ Oh.  _ There’s a sword in his stomach. He’d been prepared to lose, but not to  _ die.  _ Maybe they were always one and the same; but he didn’t believe in his own death until he felt the blade break his skin.  _ And it’s -- _

Tommy wouldn’t. Tommy can’t. He drops his hands. “You won’t kill me.” It’s getting harder to maintain that sweet and silky voice. “I’m your friend.”

“You are  _ not!”  _ He carves the hole in Dream’s guts wider, his face bright pink. “You just  _ lie  _ to me. _ ” _

He can see his own intestines, surfacing like earthworms after a rain. He’s never felt pain. He finally understands why it’s so effective. If this is the end, he won’t go quietly. He has one move left, one last pawn to take. He won’t allow Tommy to escape from him unbroken. “Technoblade, I’m ready to call in that favor.”

***

“Fuck you,” says Quackity, “What fucking favor?”

Tommy goes completely rigid.

Technoblade says, “Oh.”

“Techno.” His voice has gone raspy; blood bubbles up in his mouth. “Kill Tubbo.”

Tommy leaps up, leaving the sword planted in Dream’s abdomen like a flag. “No! No, you -- no! I just got him back, you can’t  _ take  _ him.”

He’s _ too light  _ as the piglin lifts him off of the ground and flings him bodily aside. He strikes the wall and falls down, dizzy. He tries to stand, but his knees fold inwards. He wails.

Tubbo stands still as the world warps around him.  _ Dream always has a plan. _ Dream never takes a fight he can’t win. Even when he loses, he gets what he wants. Tubbo should’ve known he wasn’t getting out of this alive. And he’s given up all of his armor. To Tommy, so he doesn’t regret that, but now he’ll be gone in a single shot. “Techno,” he pleads, although pleading didn’t work last time, “You don’t have to do this.”

“You tried to execute me,” he says gruffly, winding the draw of his crossbow taut. He locks it into place. “Dream saved my life. He may be a bastard, but I owe him everything. I owe you  _ nothing.” _

Tubbo sinks to his knees. He peers up at the weapon through his fingers. “I’m on my last life. I’ll be dead forever. We can talk later about what I’ve done to you… I’ll, I’ll find some way to make it up to you. But I’m _ begging  _ you not to hurt me.”

“Look, I’m not going back on a deal.” He places the point of the bolt against Tubbo’s waxy forehead. “I keep my promises. I am a man of honor.”

Quackity aims for the one weak spot in Techno’s back plate and stabs the piglin through the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All men do is charge they phone, betray Technoblade, eat hot chip, and lie.
> 
> I don't know how the fuck to write an action sequence.
> 
> Please tell me someone is catching all these Greek Mythology references it's taking all my brain power it can't be for nothing.
> 
> comments dearly appreciated
> 
> Next chapter: The end of this Odyssey.


	7. Carry an Oar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the Odyssey.

The Blood God revives at home, curled up in his nest of bedding, stripped of his crown, his chest throbbing with an ache that will never fully leave him. They  _ killed  _ him. He let these people into his home, showered them with gifts, fought for their cause, and they stabbed him in the back for his trouble. He’ll give them what they deserve, once he’s strong enough, once he’s resupplied. It may take a while but he’s used to biding his time. They’ve probably scattered but he’ll track them down. He knows how to follow a scent.

A pebble bounces off of his window. Technoblade heaves himself out of bed and surveys his snow-covered yard. Quackity is waiting for him, shifting nervously from foot to foot and cradling a burlap sack. Probably here to finish him off while he’s still weak.  _ Okay, new plan. Vengeance will happen today. _

He chugs a concentrated potion and clambers downstairs, the drug churning in his empty stomach. Quackity shoves the bag into his arms. “Here.”

He opens the drawstring and peers inside. Armor, golden apples, bottles that clink together like pearls on a string.

“That’s all of it.”

They’ve returned his possessions. “Odd strategy to give me back my weapons, given that I’m about to kill you.”

“I know you don’t need netherite to do that,” the butcher bites his split lip. “I hoped I could earn some mercy.”

“And you think this makes up for what you’ve done?” The piglin snorts. “You  _ literally  _ stabbed me in the back.”

“Actually,” says Quackity, and his wings prick with anger, “I think we’re more than even. You’ve taken my country. You took two of my lives. Everything I’ve ever tried to build, you destroy. If it’s that important to you, if Technoblade  _ always _ has to get his way -- then go ahead and take the third. I can’t - I  _ won’t  _ stop you.”

He blinks. “You playing mind games with me?”

“Take it!” There are tears in the duck-man’s watery black eyes. “You want it? I broke the rules: I broke  _ your  _ rules. ‘No governments’, you said, ‘Technoblade never dies’, you said, and how  _ dare _ I expect the strong to ever face consequences for their actions?” His stance is wide, but his feathers quiver. “Are you going to kill me? You’ve done it twice. Only one life left, so make sure you savor it. Take it!” He loosens the straps of his chestplate and slips it off over his head. “I’ll even make it easy for you.  _ Take it!” _

Technoblade reaches into the bundle and fishes out his sword. He keeps it pristine; all the blood he’s ever spilled has been polished off the cruel metal. 

“Does this make you feel better? Is this what helps you sleep at night? Is it better if I kneel?”

“Why are you doing this, Quackity? Do you want to die?”

“I just want it to be over, okay?” He shakes his head slightly. “I don’t want you to come  _ after  _ us. Tubbo and Tommy didn’t kill you, I did. I’m your enemy. I used you and betrayed you. Your rivalry’s with me.”

“You think you’re my rival?” Technoblade looks back in the bag: the Axe of Peace is in there too. “You really think you’re on my level? You can’t win a fight without cheating, without coercing my  _ friends  _ or endangering my horse or  _ shanking me while my back is turned!” _

“Then take my life.” He stares up to meet the beady white eyes. “Maybe it will finally make you happy. They say the third time’s the charm.”

Technoblade coughs low in his thick throat. “Do you regret your actions?”

“No.” Quackity puffs out his chest proudly. “I saved those kids. I did the right thing.”

“I don’t forgive you.” Technoblade punches him so hard across the jaw that he feels hollow bird bones snap against his fist. Quackity falls backward into the snow, dazed but grinning. “Get the hell off my property.”

***

Tubbo sits in the grass, his fingers twisting in Henry’s coarse fur. “I’m so sorry, Tommy.”

His friend feeds the steer a bouquet of red clover. He’s sampled the flower himself, enjoying the sweetness of the nectar. “You, you came.”

“I left you alone with him. Twice. And he  _ hurt  _ you.”

“He’s dead now.” Tommy shrugs, “But I still don’t feel very safe.”

“You are, though. I swear it. I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you, ever again.”

“It’s not that simple.” He takes a sip of his juice through a straw; his shriveled stomach still can’t handle solid foods. “He killed you, and I watched, and I couldn’t do  _ anything.” _

“You saved my life, you know?” He leans back against Tommy’s pet cow, who groans at the pressure. “Your paths, in the nether. I would never have made it to Quackity’s house without your help.”

“Oh,” says Tommy softly. He lets Henry suck on his hand, enjoying the sensations of rough tongue and gummy upper lip. “And you saved mine. I would have been dead in another day, I think. He wasn’t letting me have any water.”

Tubbo is seized by the sudden urge to smash a brick into that porcelain excuse for a face. But the feeling passes. Dream is dead already, and Tubbo would be happiest to never have to spill blood again. Gray clouds pass over the sun, and a warm rain begins to fall. “Should we find shelter?” he offers gently.

“No, please.” Tommy looks up, letting the raindrops splat against his forehead. “I like this.” He opens his mouth and catches water on his tongue, his blue eyes sparkling. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel rain again. Or see the sky. I like it when it’s blue, when it’s gray, or when it’s black with stars.” He lurches sideways and grabs Tubbo around the waist. “Thank you.  _ Thank you.” _

Tubbo hugs him back. “You’re welcome, but I didn’t do much.”

“What? You got Technoblade and Big Q to work together, and those guys fucking  _ hate  _ each other. You convinced them with your words. You were a  _ leader.”  _ He adds quietly, “it reminds me of Wilbur.”

“Really?”

“In the best way possible.” He shakes rain out of his shaggy blond hair. “I thought you were dead, man. That was so smart. Dream had no idea. And, well, neither did I.”

Tubbo bows his head. “I am so,  _ so,  _ sorry.”

“You can’t leave me, ever again. I  _ need  _ you.”

“Tommy, I don’t want to leave. I’m not planning on it.” He tucks his head under his friend’s chin and closes his eyes. He feels safe and cared for. Rain soaks Henry’s pelt as he chews his cud and the water vapor rises off his back and curdles into steam.

***

His face throbs. Quackity  _ knew  _ Technoblade wouldn’t kill him. So why are his hands still shaking? Maybe because, for once, he’d realized he’d been willing to die if it kept his friends safe. Tubbo is his dear friend. Tommy is just a kid who deserves to be happy.

He hadn’t intervened in Tubbo’s first execution. He’d been a coward. He’d known it was wrong, but his protests had been weak and unconvincing and ultimately he chose himself, his own safety, and looked on as a bystander. And was nevertheless killed for it.

Yesterday, he did the right thing despite knowing it could cost him his final life. Yet he’s been spared. Maybe it’s karma. Maybe somebody’s looking out for him up there.  _ Whatever.  _ He strokes the small dog that’s been circling his ankle. “Yeah, I remember you. Now let’s get outta here before Technoblade changes his mind.”

He scoops up the puppy and it snuggles into his arms, catatonic. It’s so peaceful he wonders if there’s something wrong with it.  _ Oh well.  _ This is the one that Tubbo chose. “You need a name, little guy.”

It blinks at him sleepily, one eye blue, the other brown. “You like me, huh? You remember me?” He scratches around the royal blue collar. “Argos.” Loyalty is a beautiful thing, though it’s not always rewarded. “I bet Tubbo will give you another hug. And you’ll get to meet Tommy, he’s good with animals.” Argos wags his stubby tail.

When he finds the boys, they’re soaked to the skin and using an ox as a pillow. Tommy’s asleep, bent at an awkward angle, his head leaning over Tubbo’s shoulder. The dog leaps from Quackity’s arms to get at his preferred person.

“Big Q! You’re back!” Tommy startles awake at the shout and takes a few panicky breaths before he relaxes, letting Argos climb onto his lap and lick his face. Tubbo frowns. “Technoblade really let you keep the puppy? After everything?”

He winks. “He never said I couldn’t. Not that I asked. Change into dry clothes, guys. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.”

Because they can’t  _ stay  _ here. Not in Tommy’s shittily constructed house that erodes into the crater of his condemned country. Not in Snowchester, the peaceful sanctuary with a target painted on its back. Not in Quackity’s desert house, an eerie ghost town built by the dead, a place where evil men can find him, where Tubbo’s blood still stains his dining room table. He misses lakes. 

He’s failed at everything. Nothing he builds stays standing. He can’t accomplish his ideals no matter how unethically he strives. But he won’t give up, not now, not when he’s just had the first real success of his lifetime.

The world is nearly endless, and he’s seen so little of it. Doomsday was no apocalypse if the parrots in the jungle never learned to imitate the bombs. If he travels far enough, maybe it will all be different. He’ll find a place where the people don’t need swords, where axes are for lumbering and fireworks are for celebrations and pickaxes have never drawn blood. It’s been a long journey, but he’s finally escaped from the violence, the death, the horrors of war, and he’s not going back. So he takes with him the two boys, and the cow and the dog, and resolves to find real peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you thought that ending was meaningful, it's because I cribbed it directly from Homer's Odyssey. But because the source work is over 2000 years old, it's more classy than plagiarism. It's an _allusion_.
> 
> _"...then you must take up your well-shaped oar and go on a journey  
>  until you come where there are men living who know nothing  
> of the sea, and who eat food that is not mixed with salt, who never  
> have known ships whose cheeks are painted purple, who never  
> have known well-shaped oars, which act for ships as wings do.  
> And I will tell you a very clear proof, and you cannot miss it.  
> When, as you walk, some other wayfarer happens to meet you,  
> and says you carry a winnow-fan on your bright shoulder,  
> then you must plant your well-shaped oar in the ground, and render  
> ceremonious sacrifice to the lord Poseidon."_
> 
> thank you for reading! please talk to me in the comments if you enjoyed!


End file.
